Liar's Moon

by Elizabeth C. Bunce

  “There you are,” said a mellow voice. I glanced up guiltily and saw Lord Hobin advancing on me. “Halcot said you’d be getting restless, and that somebody ought to check on you before —”

  I smiled and held up my — empty — hands. “Have no fear, your lordship. I was only looking for my own benefit.”

  “Ah.” He came up beside me. “And what did you hope to learn from — Lieutenant Scalda’s report on malaria in the swamps outside Tratua?”

  “That the prince doesn’t have malaria.” Somehow I said that out loud.

  Hobin sat on the edge of the desk, loosening a couple of the clasps on his doublet. “The prince does not, as far as I have heard, have malaria. Neither prince,” he amended — not quite swiftly enough, had anyone been there to overhear. “Your prince is in the west, with the troops advancing on the Spirau Plain. Reports have him in good health and high spirits. He fights well, and he has good advisors.”

  I nodded, relieved, but wondered why he would tell me this. He was Bardolph’s man, according to the signature on his payment orders.

  He was watching me, keen eyes bright in the dim room. “Not everyone in the current government is entirely satisfied by the way His Majesty has chosen to conduct his affairs in this war. It’s despicable, really — holding his own armies close to Gerse, while Astilan and Wierolf battle it out among themselves? Damnable way to choose a successor.”

  “And if it’s Astilan, Bardolph will open the city gates and hand over the crown?”

  Hobin shrugged. “I suppose that’s what everyone’s expecting. Wierolf’s army will be tired and spent, and the royal troops at Gerse will be fresh. It keeps the king from risking too much, of course, but I can’t think much of it.” He shuffled the papers into new order. “And if Astilan falls during a battle somewhere? What will His Majesty do then, I wonder.”

  “I thought Astilan was being kept away from the fighting.” That’s what rumor said, anyway.

  “He was,” Hobin said. “Until the Sarists won a few key battles in the north the last couple of months, then he insisted on taking an active generalship. Nobody’s happy about it, but they think he’s going to be king. Who’s going to gainsay him?”

  “He’s trained for it, though.” All his life, in his uncle’s armies, alongside the best fighters in the world, while Wierolf had spent twenty years in libraries and hunting lodges. I had seen him fight; he was strong and skilled, but he was not a career military man.

  “An arrow can strike anyone,” Hobin said. “And Zet can deflect a blow, or make a horse stumble. Anything can happen.”

  Somehow, that didn’t make me feel any better.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Lord Hobin led me from his study through the balcony and down wide, curving stairs to the moonslit terrace below. I heard a scrap of voices, the rustle of skirts carried on the muggy air, and I saw Koya trot up the terrace steps and pause to say something to Lord Ragn. I wasn’t sure what to make of my own conversation with Durrel’s father, except that it was depressing and unproductive, and once again I had nothing of worth to bring to Durrel. I watched Lord Ragn below me. Koya had gone back into the party, but he remained silhouetted against the torchlight on the terrace, looking out over the water and rubbing the back of his neck.

  Sighing, I returned to the house, where guests floated and mingled through the drowsy candlelight. I spotted Rat tucked away in a corner, curled sleepily into a cushioned bench, a wine glass hooked in one hand dangling precarious inches from the marble floor. “Where have you been?” he asked. “You’ve disappointed everyone tonight, you know. They were hoping you might stab somebody.”

  “You’re drunk,” I said. Sometimes it was hard to tell, until he said something stupid.

  “Yes,” he said. “On the last bottle of sparkling Grisel in Gerse. Care to join me?”

  “It’s tempting.” Fortunately, if that was even the right word, at that moment Koya came sweeping by, trailing her gray silken skirts behind her like a spiderweb.

  “Celyn!” she cried. “I’m sorry we didn’t get to see more of each other tonight, but I must run.”

  “It’s a little early for you, isn’t it?” Rat observed. “The moons haven’t set yet.”

  “Alas, yes,” she said. “But I have other demands on my company tonight.”

  Behind her, Lord Ragn had been detained by Lord Hobin, who appeared to be trying to coax him to stay.

  “Is Lord Ragn leaving too?” I asked.

  “I wouldn’t know,” she said. “Why?”

  “I saw you speaking to him just now,” I said, and Koya broke into a wide smile.

  “And you think I must have said something scandalous to chase him off! Now I’m almost sorry I didn’t.”

  “Do you often say scandalous things to Lord Ragn?” Rat asked, saving me the trouble.

  Koya gave a brief, surprised laugh. “I don’t often say anything to the man. Why would I? But for Lord Durrel, our paths wouldn’t ever have crossed. And, well, what does one do with one’s — what? — step-grandfather?” She laughed again, then dipped in to kiss me on each cheek. A cloud of exotic scent almost concealed the faint odor of wine. “I must say good night,” she said. “But, dear Celyn, come see me again. I have a salon at Cartouche nearly every evening; tell the boys at the door and they’ll let you in.” With a flutter of her fingers, she danced away.

  Rat slinked upward in the chair. “You should go. Her salons are very exclusive. And entertaining.”

  I wasn’t sure what a “salon” was, but I wasn’t burning with the desire to spend another evening with these people. Lord Ragn was still at the terrace doors, trying to disentangle himself from conversation with Hobin and the lady in pink. “Why is he leaving so early?” I wondered aloud.

  Rat yawned elaborately. “I think he said something about wanting to beat the curfew.”

  “But he lives only a few minutes from here. We’ve got a good hour left before curfew. Where’s he going?” As I turned the thought over in my head, I decided I wanted to know.

  “I don’t like the look of that,” Rat said, sounding abruptly sober. “What are you planning?”

  “Don’t you know by now I never plan anything?” I said. “Give my regrets to Lord Hobin.”

  He tilted his head back against the bench. “I would try to stop you, but I can’t seem to move. Don’t stay out too late.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  Rat was right — this was a bad idea. But I’d had my fill of Lord Hobin’s guests, and Lord Ragn’s abrupt departure bothered me. It was none of my business and probably had absolutely nothing to do with Durrel’s predicament, but I’d seen those strange guards at Charicaux — the ones Durrel hadn’t known anything about — and besides, there was still an hour to go until curfew. I’d rather be out in the night air, chasing after Lord Ragn, than stuck at the teriza trying to make conversation with the lady in pink. I’d come to Hobin’s to see him, after all. So see Lord Ragn I would.

  He left the teriza on foot, which was unusual; most genteel Nob Circle traffic was by water, so the nobs didn’t have to break a sweat in the summer heat. I let him get a few dozen paces ahead of me, quickly realizing the impracticality of my impulse; I was not dressed for a stealth tracking job. I was, in fact, apparently clad in the loudest garment possible; jester’s bells couldn’t have made these rustling skirts any noisier. But Lord Ragn’s attention was clearly focused on whatever was before him, not who might be behind him.

  Out of the grand homes of Nob Circle, under the Oss Bridge, past a public circle patrolled by Green Army soldiers, I followed Lord Ragn doggedly, though the night grew no less sticky the farther away from the water we got. We were headed vaguely uphill, toward the city wall and the Pilgrims’ Gate, well away from his own part of town. I imagined he was going somewhere illicit, intriguing — a gambling den, perhaps, or a courtesan’s house. But as I recognized the streets and the neighborhood, I slowed down, stumped. What was Lord Ragn doing here?

  He crossed
down one wide, empty, cobbled road, moving with purpose toward a squat, square building that I recognized. I didn’t have to see around the back of that warehouse to know that its neighbor, across a narrow strip of alley and behind a low stone wall with an unlocked gate, was an abandoned house technically owned by Lord Ragn’s imprisoned son.

  He’d led me to the warehouse behind Bal Marse.

  I froze at the mouth of the alleyway and hung back behind the corner as Lord Ragn withdrew a key from his doublet and let himself in through a narrow back door. I scurried down the alley after him, but he’d locked the door behind him, and I didn’t dare take the risk that he was standing just inside, if I tumbled it.

  What was his business here? I supposed it was completely possible he was here for some legitimate purpose — but he’d come alone, by night, with no light, after having an upsetting conversation about his murder-suspect son. I couldn’t be sure those things were related, of course. But I wouldn’t like to wager on it.

  I gave the perimeter of the warehouse a good once-over, but it was windowless, the other doors closed fast, nothing at all to give up Lord Ragn’s purpose here. I waited a discreet distance away, tucked behind a barrel at the end of the alleyway, but he did not reappear, and eventually my feet went numb in my red silk shoes. If I didn’t get home soon, I really would miss the curfew, so I reluctantly gave up my hold on Lord Ragn, and headed back across town to the bakery.

  As I walked, I tugged at threads in the scraps of information I’d collected, hoping one might pull loose. Durrel had mentioned Talth’s business, and Barris had seemed touchy when I’d asked him about his mother’s affairs. And now Lord Ragn showed up at one of his dead daughter-in-law’s properties, practically in the middle of the night. I needed more information about Mistress Ceid’s enterprises. Fortunately I knew just the person to consult.

  The next afternoon, after sleeping off Lord Hobin’s party, I headed down to the Big Silver, where the Ceid controlled some of the dockyards and shipping houses. I was wearing holes in my good shoes, with all this crosstown running about. Still, it wasn’t the Ceid I’d come to see today.

  Eptin Cwalo, distinguished merchant and shrewd businessman, was a smallish, unprepossessing fellow who kept an elegant little storefront in the Spiral, that part of the city where lovely, rich streets twisted together in a tight, tidy borough of shops and houses, and neighbors kept a keen eye on one another’s safety and turned a blind one to their business. Cwalo & Sons, Importers sold spices and silks, glassware and incense, imported from all over the world; and from his warehouse down on the Big Silver, Cwalo carried out an even more profitable trade in . . . other things. I’d met him at the Nemair’s last winter, and he’d taken an unaccountable liking to me, kindly delivering me back to the city when winter was over. After two months traveling the back roads of Llyvraneth with the man, I’d come to share the Nemair’s trust in him.

  I trotted down the Big Silver as the sun pulsed heavily against the streets. It was getting muggier, and I pulled at my layers of dress, grateful for the slight slip of a breeze I imagined curling around my hot ankles. I crossed from dusty cobbles to rippled boardwalk and passed into the shade of hulking merchant traders, their mooring lines creaking in the humid air. I saw the name on one vessel and had to smile. It was new, Tratuan built, flying neutral flags, and called Merista.

  Outside a low frame building opposite the docks, a compact, bald man, clad in neat black, spoke with a brace of royal guardsmen. I pulled back, my neck and belly tense, but Cwalo gave one of the guards a friendly thump on the arm. I waited until they walked away, and I noticed one of them carried a distinctive green wine bottle under one arm.

  Cwalo’s shiny face lit up when he saw me, and he strolled over, arms open. “My dear! I would tell you this is no place for a girl like you, but I think I might be wrong.” He pulled me into a quick, firm embrace. I glanced down the road at the departing guardsmen, and Cwalo shook his head. “It takes half my profits maintaining goodwill in this city, but it’s worth it, these days.”

  I cast my eyes around the dockyard. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”

  “Always.” He led me toward the warehouse’s small office room, where he motioned to a chair and perched himself on the desk, rummaging in the drawer behind him for a bronze flask and a set of tiny bejeweled cordial cups. I was lucky to find him back in Gerse; he spent most of his time on the road, and his main family home was in Yeris Volbann, but he made it a point to let me know when he was back in the city — even if I didn’t always manage to come see him. “What brings you here? Tell me it’s because you’ve reconsidered my offer!” He grinned as he poured a creamy liquid into the little cups.

  “Master Cwalo, you know I love you, but I am not going to marry Garod.” Cwalo’s overriding ambition was to find brides for his six sons.

  He gave a little sigh. “Ah, well. I won’t stop asking, you know.”

  “You have five other sons. Pick me another one. I did like Piral a lot, you know.”

  “Piral?” Cwalo’s face was very serious. “Piral is eleven years old and thinks of nothing but ships and dogs. I think you may be too much woman for him.”

  I laughed aloud at that. “He popped the lock I gave him on his very first try,” I reminded him. “Besides, by the time I’m ready for a husband, he’ll be all grown up. Try me again in another ten years.”

  “My girl, if no one has managed to coax you into becoming respectable by that time, I don’t think even Piral will be up for that task. Now. Tell me why you’ve come.”

  I sobered and explained about the murder of Talth Ceid. Cwalo had been out of the city for a few months, but it didn’t surprise me that he’d heard the news.

  “Bad tidings, indeed. Mistress Talth was a formidable influence in so many areas — not an easy woman to like, certainly — but she got things done. I can’t imagine young Durrel had any part in this!”

  The relief I felt was irrational, but Cwalo had the best nose for cunning I knew, and I was glad to have him confirm my own conviction. Swiftly I told him of Durrel’s questions regarding Talth’s business dealings, the warehouse near Bal Marse visited by Lord Ragn, the curiously empty home adjacent to it, and the guards now patrolling the Decath grounds.

  He frowned at that, leaning forward a little in his seat. “Well, that’s not like them at all, I’d say. Ragn Decath’s a good man, steady. If he’s scared enough to hire a security force . . .” His frown deepened. “I think you’re right. It’s certainly worth looking into.”

  I resumed my account, telling him about the encounter I’d had with Talth’s children. “The daughter gave me a couple of names. Uh — Emmis somebody?”

  “Emmis Corsour?” Cwalo looked incredulous. “The man’s got to be eighty, and he never leaves his farm in Wolt. He’s obsessed with breeding the perfect hen. I don’t think he’s your man. Who else?”

  “Kurst, I think?”

  “That doesn’t sound familiar. I can’t help you there.” He paused a moment, his gaze scrutinizing. “There’s a complication you’re not telling me.”

  I hesitated, looking at my fingers spread wide against my skirts. Cwalo knew about me, but the less said about these matters, the better. I nodded.

  “Very well, I think I can guess. Go on.”

  I shifted in my chair; I could see water beneath the floorboards at my feet, and gulls cried loudly outside, their voices eerie in the still air. “I need to know more about Talth’s business,” I said. “Have you heard that she was involved in anything . . . ?” I trailed off.

  Lips pursed, Cwalo rubbed his bald head. “That’s a broad question. The answer to the specific question you did not ask me is no, but contrary to your opinion of me, I am not privy to everything that happens on our fair nation’s docks. It’s entirely possible she was involved in matters that may have caused her path to cross with some of our . . . unique friends.”

  “Durrel said he thought Talth was involved with criminals. But you’re saying she w
as involved with Sarists?” I kept my voice low.

  “No! My girl, you misunderstand me.”

  “Imagine that. You weren’t being oblique at all.”

  Cwalo sighed and tapped his knuckles against the desk, obviously trying to decide whether to tell me something, or how much. I waited, and he finally drew his ringed fingers together in a pyramid before his face. “There are rumors — nothing confirmed, mind you, and no one’s approached me directly — but I’ve heard murmurs of secret shipments in and out of Gerse these last few months.”

  “Shipments of what?”

  Cwalo shook his head. “No word. Could be guns, could be gold — could be oranges from Talanca, for all I know.”

  “But you don’t think so.”

  He gave an almost imperceptible shrug. “Hard to say. But at a guess, it’s not guns. The Ceid openly ship supplies for Bardolph, so there’d be no reason to hide shipments of firearms to the Green Army. And we know where the rebels get their weapons.”

  He meant himself, on that account. “Gold, then?”

  “Well, it’s more likely, but again —”

  “It doesn’t explain the magic.” I thought back for a moment, recalling everything I’d learned about smuggling while traveling with Cwalo. “You’re thinking it’s like that woman we met in Wyrst — that widow who sold us her brooch.” She’d wanted an outrageous sum for the thing, its value confirmed when it sparked up at my touch, but couldn’t say what it actually did. I’d poked at it for a fortnight, but never could coax its secrets from it. Still, there were collectors — a black market in rare, magical antiquities that was so secretive even Cwalo didn’t usually deal with it.

  “I would say that’s a distinct possibility. And dangerous enough too. The illicit trade in magical artifacts is risky at the best of times.”

  “And you think that Talth was involved with these secret shipments?”

  “I’m certain that the Ceid are involved; nothing happens in this city without their say, but to what extent your friend’s departed spouse figured into the equation, I’m afraid I can’t speculate. It might not have anything to do with your mystery at all.”